Weekend - By Christopher Pike Page 0,7

mind.

"What's the matter, Preppy Park?" he asked. "Don't you trust me?"

Sol had taken to putting "Preppy" before Park's name, since Harvard had written saying that one Park Christopher Jacomini looked like Ivy League material to them. Park did not resent the title. It reminded him of how Ali McGraw had annoyed Ryan O'Neal at the beginning of the movie,Love Story . He strongly identified with the character Ryan O'Neal played. He also had an annoying rich dad, and also was going to go to Harvard, and also wanted to be a lawyer and marry a girl with a body like Ali McGraw's. He even fancied that he resembled Ryan O'Neal, somewhat. Angie said that he did. Of course, she was always quick to flatter. Robin hadn't done that... hadn't needed to.

Before she'd been hurt, Robin had had a body like Ali's. And he'd always figured that he would have married her. She had been - still was - the one with the heart of gold. He glanced south down the road, in the direction where she waited to see him again. He didn't want to think about it. People his age got busted for smoking dope, they got depressed and made fools of themselves over meaningless crushes, they got lousy grades and hated their parents. But they didn't die, not in his world. They couldn't die slowly and take a piece of him with them. God, how he hated himself for having left her for Angie! But what could he do? He simply couldn't handle it. Was this the real reason he identified with Ryan O'Neal's character inLove Story ? What can you say about an eighteen-year-old girl who died...

Park kicked the flat tyre. "What the hell. I don't care if we ever get there."

Sol went right on reading his mind. Blowing smoke in his face, he said, "You're such a wimp."

"Just because I won't go back across the border with you and your stash?"

"Who said I picked up anything? But don't change the subject. A real man would stand by his babe when she's in a tight spot. Robin's a great chick. She gets in trouble and you dump her." Sol spat.

"You should talk," Park snapped, throwing all caution aside. "What about Kerry and tight spots?"

"That was not the same. Kerry got humiliated, and we all felt bad for her, but it was only a joke. Dying is... it's no joke." He added quietly, "I know."

Park wondered at the change in his tone. Probably a memory of a friend stuck with a bloody knife had surfaced. Park pulled off his shirt, and wiped the sweat from his face. "I'll have a talk with her," he said.

"If that's the best you can do, then do it."

Park wanted to change the subject. Peering in the direction of the canteen, he remarked: "What are those guys doing? They've been gone awhile."

"Probably getting drunk."

"I don't think Flynn drinks."

"Bert will down enough beer to make up for him."

"Hey, Sol, what do you think of that Flynn?"

"I don't think he's a wimp."

"Give me a break, would ya?"

Sol patted his cheek lightly. Up close, Sol's features were thick and fearsome; however Park had to admit he was probably handsome. Strangely enough, he looked part Slavic - his mouth especially, which was large and sensual. Also, his dark hair had a hint of red, and fine curls that girls loved to run their fingers through. But his sharp black eyes, his calculating expressions, and swollen, tattooed biceps were clearly from the wrong side of the tracks.

"Okay, Preppy," he said. "I don't know nothing about him. He hardly talks. And besides, who cares?"

"I sometimes wonder about him. He looks - it's weird - he looks familiar."

"Yeah, now that you mention it," Sol said thoughtfully, then shrugging. "But who cares?"

"I can see that you don't. I wonder why he came to Santa Barbara."

"Probably for the climate."

"You're a hopeless degenerate. I don't know why I associate with you."

"Because hanging around me makes you look more interesting to the chicks than you really are."

Park thought that was pretty funny, if not true. "How's Lena been treating you?"

Sol groaned, but before he could elaborate, his eyes narrowed. "Someone's coming."

Park turned. Approaching from the weed-choked desolation of a nearby eastern hill was a tall Indian, clothed in a tan tunic tied at the waist with an orange sash. His long stringy hair was the same colour as his robe, bordering a deep red beardless face that disallowed an accurate